“from among the smocks of earlier centuries, footless at first, they used to chant” by Mark Leahy

Takes one up and who, having examined it through the lens, motions, noting in her collection there was a male écorché (based on a Rodin) which stood to one side giving the bare outline as if distracted by an unspoken minute feature inlaid with a variety of exotic materials, shagreen, ostrich shell, emboyna wood, and still it runs much deeper, below the topsoil, below the deepest tree roots for a while on a sunny bank with a thick covering of moss scattered across the surface their trajectories traced a random pattern reminiscent of a year-round funicular system or, as the needle of nature in creating curiousities densely packed and padded and later tidied up the cast-offs, his sense of purpose had finished shaving him, he rinsed neither fur, nor wool, nor bristles, but a Norwegian pullover with a design of circles and as soon as he was sure he’d heard the same sound that day in April, promised to furnish him with thirty jackets, and as many smooth semicircular divisions scored into the surface using a small shaping on the body of cloud banks approaching, rain-filled so the effect is built up in the same number of coats and moistens it with spit, then mixing it with his right index finger into the colour of death, took off his shirt showing the bruising, in his adjusting the thermal requirement the wardrobe master’s seasonal.

 

The fabric gaped, leaking forth from the ruptured sides, trailing from memory, fixed by endless circling motions, grouping into bundles gathered at the small of the back, a big cluster to fill out over a coarsening of the texture using thicker yarns without thought for form, wears a rougher coat, the skin lightly brushed with colour makes one more description of the intricate design for the breastplate worth looking at closely, counting the rows per inch, the threads quickly becoming familiar with the conditions, in ten minutes draws the listener without revealing, and he wondered at the talcum powder or some other fine dry substance hiding the tinier details the parts of the story fitted together, the scales meeting edge-to-edge constructed wings of elaborate laciness to lift them above the puddles, a double layer held together with tailor’s tacks, if the weather watching him get undressed, the removal of clothing that rain of acorns, fell on walkers in the woods the rough cups of a black fruit (with a band of red) he hadn’t seen before and asked how he should.

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